It Don't Mean a Thing (if it ain't got that swing)
by KarmaHope
Summary: The year is 1941. War rages across the Atlantic, but at home the warmly lit dance halls are a stark contrast to the cold, fearful blackouts taking place across Europe. It's in one such dance hall that jazz pianist Soul Evans meets hepcat Maka Albarn, and the two share a whirlwind romance just months before they get pulled into the deadliest conflict in world history.
1. Part I

_This was a very self-indulgent fic. I started dancing the Lindy Hop a year ago, and it has become a huge part of my life. "Let's write a vintage AU swing dance fic," I said to myself. This is not quite the fic I originally intended, because it became so heavily intertwined with my fascination with World War II._

 _That being said, I tried to make this fic as historically accurate as possible, down to the radio broadcast about Pearl Harbor. If you have any questions about slang or historical events or anything, really, feel free to ask. I was going to include a 'Historical Notes' chapter, but there's just far too much for me to define it all._

 _A huge thank-you goes out to_ khaleesimaka _for betaing, as well as_ snowbunnie42 _for working with me and creating such amazing art. Also to_ bleedingsamauri _for being my personal cheerleader through this entire process and the mods, for putting everything together._

 _Without further ado, this is:_

 **It Don't Mean a Thing (if it ain't got that swing)** **  
**KarmaHope

The year was 1941.

War raged across the Atlantic; an allied effort against the manifestation of all that was evil in the world. For many, it was a worst nightmare come true. The Great War had not been forgotten, and mothers saw not their sons' shoulders as they turned and walked away, but those of their absent husbands in horrifying echoes of the past.

Two years had passed since Germany invaded Poland. Two years since the fighting began, and it showed no signs of stopping. The United States hovered on the precipice, dipping her toes in the water but ultimately unwilling to dive. It was easier to feign ignorance.

The brassy cries of the trumpet drowned out the ear-shattering explosions landing an ocean away, the warmly lit dance hall a stark contrast to the cold, fearful blackouts taking place across Europe. The carefree laughter that echoed throughout the room was ignorance at its finest. After all, the only immediate concerns were either having toes trodden upon by inept dance partners or bungling notes.

* * *

Solomon Evans, more commonly known to his friends simply as 'Soul,' would never forget the first night he spotted her in the crowd. How could he, when he missed a note? His fingers slipped in his distraction; the resulting sour, atonal chord was what jarred him back into focus. He glanced briefly at his bandmates to see if they'd noticed, but they were all too enthralled in their rendition of Benny Goodman's _Sing, Sing, Sing_ to notice his boner.

It was his first night playing at the Shibusen Ballroom, and he was doing his part in helping the American people forget about the war, at least for a few hours. The brassy swing was uplifting, and a welcome change from the stuffy classical music he had grown up with.

He glanced over the crowd, and for a passing moment, he wished he could dance. The jitterbugs made it look easy as they twirled around the floor, going through the motions of the Charleston, the Lindy Hop, and the Shag. The dancing ranged from fumbling and conservative to confident and wild, depending on the skill and experience of the dancers.

The movement blended together until it wasn't much more than the visual equivalent of background noise, and just as easily ignorable. It made it that much more surprising when a single pair of dancers in the corner caught his eye. He found himself watching them, muscle memory becoming the only thing that kept his fingers ghosting over the piano keys in his distraction.

As much as the Lindy Hop was new to him, he had never seen a dance look more like a fight. The two partners threw themselves into and away from each other, their clasped hands the only thing that kept their momentum from sending them flying across the dance floor in opposite directions. The other dancers gave them a wider berth than most, almost unconsciously, and for good reason.

The moment Soul's fingers slipped was the moment the man grabbed his partner and tossed her around his shoulders as if she weighed nothing. She landed on the beat, and they threw themselves right back into the dance as if nothing short of spectacular had ever occurred. Even in the dim mood lighting of the dance hall, Soul could tell they were both grinning with exhilaration.

Who wouldn't be, after something like that?

He tore his eyes away and pointedly focused on nothing but the music and the ivory keys beneath his fingers for several minutes. While he had originally auditioned for the spot in Spartoi for no other reason than the fact that playing the piano was one of his few skills and he needed a job, his shoulders moved a little with the rhythm as he played, and he realized he was actually having _fun_.

Then his bandmate Kilik dove into the drum solo with gusto, and Soul was left with several bars of nothing to do. Again, his attention drifted toward the dance floor, and again, he was enraptured by the same couple that had caught his attention before.

The dame was wearing a pale blue dress, or at least he thought it was blue – it was hard to tell in the light. The fabric was thin and floaty, and when she twirled, the skirt twirled with her, making her movements that much more pronounced. She was a tiny thing – she barely came up past her partner's shoulder – but her presence on the dance floor was practically larger than life.

The man she was dancing with might have been leading, but it wasn't his show. It was hers.

Soul managed to come in on cue when the music demanded his attention once again, and the band finished out the piece. They took a few seconds' pause, and then they were rolling immediately into the next piece. The dancers switched partners, and the movement never stopped.

When he looked up again, he had lost track of the dame in the blue dress. A small wave of irrational disappointment washed over him, but he figured it was probably for the best. Without the distraction, he could focus on the music instead, as he was supposed to be doing. A few piano solos came and went, and he nailed each one of them.

Toward the end of the set, when his fingers were tiring and he was about ready to go home to his shithole of an apartment, things took a sudden turn. The song ended, and he watched as the motion on the floor came to a still. The people created a horseshoe around the stage, and a hush of anticipation fell over the crowd. It was only once the band began playing again that Soul realized why.

His friend Blake had told him about 'Showtime,' a tradition that Shibusen had borrowed in part from the Savoy, when the floor would clear for the best Lindy Hoppers to try to outdo each other. Anticipation began to grow within him as well, and he wondered if the dame in blue would be making an appearance. Surely she must, he figured, because he had never seen anything so stunning.

Spartoi plunged into a rendition of Count Basie's _Blow Top_ , another upbeat tune that had Soul moving as he played. When he spared a glance up, there she was, with the same man he had seen her with earlier. Now that they were standing closer, he could confirm that her dress was, in fact, blue. Her hair was an ashy blonde, and it was falling out of what must have been painstakingly arranged curls. She didn't look like she noticed, or even cared, as she watched the first couple dance with fire in her eyes.

Her partner stood beside her, his arms crossed and his dark hair beginning to fall into his face as it broke free from the hold of the pomade. While he was much more reserved than his partner, it was clear that he was just as ready to grandstand as she was.

Two other couples took their turns, and both performances were amazing – at least from what he saw of them. He was lucky that his piano solo had already come and gone by the time the dame in blue and her partner took the floor, because they were really cooking with helium. Soul had a hard time looking away from the daring airsteps and the raw energy they exuded.

Damn, he wished he could dance.

But he couldn't, and so he settled for playing the music for others to dance to instead. Spartoi took the repeat several times over to allow the dancers an unbroken rhythm, and Soul's gaze wandered on the second and third repeat. He found himself watching the dame in blue more often than not, and on one occasion, his eyes lingered for a little longer than perhaps they should have.

She looked up – _looked directly at him_ – met his gaze, and smiled.

Well, fuck.

He tore his eyes away immediately to stare down at the fascinating black and white teeth of the piano. It was only then that he realized he should have smiled back. Or something. A hot blush rose up into his cheeks and the tips of his ears, and he sighed in relief when the bandleader finally signaled the cutoff.

When he finally took another cautious look at the crowd, she was gone.

He told himself that was a good thing. She probably thought he was some creep, and he'd rather not have to come to terms with that right now.

* * *

"Hey, bub! That performance was killer-diller! You were really cookin' with gas!"

Soul laughed as Blake Barrett, Spartoi's first trumpeter and his best friend, approached him after the set. He was hauling his trumpet case, and Soul felt a familiar wave of relief at the fact that he played an instrument he didn't have to carry with him.

"I did all right," he hedged as they began to walk. "I made a few boners. It was stupid, really."

Blake rolled his eyes. "Don't be such a fat-head. It's _jazz_ – nobody notices if you goof or not. All the hep cats are caught up in the dancin', anyway."

"Yeah, well."

Soul wanted to ask about the dame in blue, but he bit his tongue. The resultant teasing that was sure to follow just wasn't worth it. He knew he'd see her again – after all, she had looked like she was a regular. He'd have plenty more opportunities to make a mook of himself, especially since Spartoi played at the Shibusen Ballroom three nights a week.

"So how'd you like it?" Blake asked, interrupting Soul's musings. "It might not be the Savoy, but the Shibusen's still in the groove."

"It'll pay the bills." Soul shrugged. "But I had fun. Swing's much more fun than classical ever was."

"Oh yeah, I keep forgetting you were some fuddy-duddy before you met me."

Soul sighed. "I wasn't some fuddy-duddy," he mumbled defeatedly; they'd had this conversation before. "My parents were just … civilized, y'know?"

"Civilized? Soul, from what you've told me, your parents were the _definition_ of Fifth Avenue," Blake scoffed. "I'm still surprised you ain't hincty."

They paused on a street corner, and Blake took the opportunity to set his instrument down for a moment. Soul leaned casually against a nearby lamppost as Blake pulled a cigarette from the tin of Potter's he kept in his trouser pocket and lit up. He inhaled deeply, dragging the medicinal smoke into his lungs before letting it all out.

"Your lungs are still bothering you," Soul said. It wasn't a question. His friend had practically hacked up a lung immediately after their set, and it was evident that he still wasn't breathing right.

Blake just shrugged and coughed. "It's not too bad tonight," he said, "just wait until October. That's when it all goes to shit." He took another drag. "Come on, there's no use dallying here."

Soul pushed off the lamppost to grab the instrument case, but Blake smacked his hand away and picked it up himself. "You're such an eager beaver, gosh. I can handle it."

They crossed the street. "Forgive me for wanting to help," Soul muttered petulantly, pushing the brim of his fedora up higher on his brow.

"Nah, I know you mean well, but how many times do I have to tell ya? There's nothin' that can stop the great Blake Barrett!"

"No, no there's not," Soul agreed.

They fell into silence for the rest of their walk. The August evening was warm, but not unpleasantly so. The warm yellow glow the lamps cast into the street provided a certain sense of security. When they reached their apartment building, Blake dropped his cigarette butt on the sidewalk and stubbed it out with his toe. Soul followed him inside, doffing his hat as he stepped through the door.

They climbed the three flights of rickety stairs to get to their floor. The elevator had been out of service for a week now, and Soul doubted that getting it fixed was one of the landlord's priorities. He wouldn't mind so much if the stairs didn't feel like they would collapse beneath his feet.

He sighed in relief when they exited the stairwell on the fourth floor. "Well," he said once they reached the door to his shithole of an apartment, "if I don't see you around, I'll see you Wednesday."

Blake grinned. "Oh, you'll see me before then. We're gonna turn you into a hopper yet."

It took Soul a minute to process what it was his friend just said. "Wait, what?"

But Blake was already disappearing into the apartment next door, and Soul was left standing in the hallway like an idiot. Slightly dazed, he finally pushed his way into his apartment and flipped on the light. He hung his hat on the rack and loosened his tie before collapsing onto his small, lumpy couch.

There was no way Blake could have known, right? There was no way Blake could have seen him watching the dame in blue. After all, the first trumpet was positioned on the opposite side of the stage from the pianist, and Blake would have been concentrating on his own thing. And yet.

And yet, Blake had just told him, in not quite so many words, that they were going dancing tomorrow evening. A momentary panic seized him, and Soul hoped against hope that his friend would forget. He knew it was unlikely – once Blake Barrett got something into his head, it was pretty much guaranteed to happen. He instead discarded that idea for the hope that they wouldn't be going to Shibusen. Maybe he could convince Blake to go to the Savoy instead, as much as the idea intimidated him.

If all else failed, there was the chance that the dame in blue wouldn't be at Shibusen tomorrow night, but that was probably just as unlikely as Blake forgetting about going dancing altogether.

It wasn't that Soul didn't want to see her again; in all actuality, he wanted to see her more than he probably should. He'd never been good with the ladies, however, and he just wanted to avoid the embarrassment he knew was inevitable.

Because the fact was, Solomon Evans couldn't dance to save his life.

He groaned loudly and ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it up artfully. He'd always been more comfortable with messy, soft hair, much to his parents' consternation. He hated the crunchy feeling of the product he put in it every morning, and it was always a joy to ruin the careful styling in the evening.

With a grunt, he pushed himself off the couch and made his way to the small upright piano that was probably the most expensive piece of furniture in his shitty apartment. It sat against the wall he shared with Blake, and although it was late, he probably wouldn't wake anyone up if he played quietly.

If he disturbed Blake, it'd just be payback for all the times he'd been woken way too early in the morning by the sound of Blake's trumpet. His friend didn't understand the concept of 'quiet' outside of musical dynamics, and even then it was dubious.

So even though his wrists were still sore from Spartoi's set earlier, he took a deep breath and played for nearly an hour before the events of the day caught up with him. Yawning loudly, he turned in for the night. At least he didn't have to get up early for anything.

* * *

The next evening, the crack of knuckles against the shared wall heralded the very things he spent the entire day worrying about, and he – very reluctantly – dressed for what was sure to be a disastrous evening out.

* * *

That same night, a few blocks away, a similar scene occurred.

"Come on, Maka," a dark-haired woman complained to her roommate in Japanese, "hurry up! You're taking forever!"

Maka Albarn laughed as she slicked an extra coat of lipstick over lips that were already red. "You know that's not true, Tsubaki," she replied in the same language as she replaced the cap. "You take even longer to get ready than I do."

"Yeah, and you're hogging the bathroom. I still need to get in there!"

Maka rolled her eyes good-naturedly as she removed the pins keeping her snood in place, careful not to destroy the rolls she'd so painstakingly crafted that morning. When she pulled the crocheted net from her hair, the pin curls she'd set the night before tumbled down to her shoulders. She ran a brush through them and then, deciding it was as good as it was going to get, exited the small bathroom.

"Your turn," she told Tsubaki, who was waiting impatiently in their small living room. The other woman was absentmindedly thumbing through a copy of _Kitty Foyle_ , which she put down immediately.

"I won't be long," Tsubaki said, although Maka knew that was unlikely. Tsubaki took great pride in her appearance, and why wouldn't she? She was gorgeous.

As Tsubaki ducked into the bathroom, Maka fiddled with the radio until the sounds of Tommy Dorsey flooded the small living space. Almost immediately, her feet began to trace familiar steps in time to the music. After a day of ferociously boring secretary work at Stein & Gorgon, she was itching for the freedom dancing provided.

Sometimes, she tried to imagine what her life might have been like if she hadn't received the scholarship to attend Yale for law school. She and Tsubaki would likely still be stuck back in Nevada; Maka with her drunken, doting father and distant mother and Tsubaki with a family who paid very little attention to her at all.

She was much happier here in New York, she mused as she shuffled around the room with only her thoughts for a partner. At fifteen, during the early days of the depression, she never would have dreamed that she would end up living on the eastern seaboard; and yet, ten years later, there she was. She may not have the job she wanted, but she was living in her own apartment with her best friend, and that was enough.

"Really, Maka?" Tsubaki asked as she stepped back into the living room some indeterminate amount of time later, the foreign syllables rolling easily off her tongue. "You couldn't wait until we actually got to the dance hall?"

Maka shrugged. "I'm just warming up," she said as she turned off the radio. "I hope Kidd's there tonight. I'd really like to work on my pancakes."

The Japanese girl shook her head, the rolls in her hair bouncing slightly with the movement. "You and your airsteps," she said, not unkindly. "You know, it wouldn't hurt you to do some casual dancing, for once."

"But where's the fun in that?" Maka asked, grinning as she retrieved her purse and her dancing shoes. "You ready to go?"

"Sure thing," Tsubaki replied. "I'm just waiting on you."

The two women locked the door behind them as they stepped out into the hallway of their apartment complex. They weren't in the nicest part of town, although it certainly wasn't the worst. Still, there was no point in taking any chances.

"Maka! Tsubaki!" Their landlady greeted them happily as they passed her on the landing. "Going out again tonight?"

Maka smiled. "Never a dull moment," she replied gaily, switching to English outside the privacy of their apartment.

"Well, you girls have fun tonight."

"Thanks, Mrs. Blair," Tsubaki said. "We will."

They'd just turned to leave when the landlady stopped them with, "Oh, and Maka?"

"Yes, Mrs. Blair?"

The older woman grinned. "Find yourself a man, won't you? Surely there are single men at those dance halls you go to. You're getting too old not to have a strapping young thing on your arm."

Maka felt heat rising to her cheeks. "Yes, ma'am," she said meekly, because this same conversation had occurred often enough that she knew it was pointless to argue. Really, though, she was perfectly fine on her own. She'd never needed anyone else, and with war hanging on the inevitable horizon, she felt that a relationship at this point would be a useless frivolity.

Because what if her man was sent off to fight, as he surely would be? Would he return like her father had, broken and buried in the bottom of a bottle?

But she didn't voice any of this, because it was pointless to argue with Mrs. Blair once she had her mind set on something. Appeased, the other woman nodded firmly in approval before bustling off to do whatever it was she had been doing before she had stopped to talk.

Maka and Tsubaki headed out onto the street, joining the throngs of others already enjoying the clear New York evening. The sea of white noise that hundreds of conversations created washed over them, and they added their own voices to the mix. Despite their earlier rush, they took their time walking the few blocks to the Shibusen.

Of course, it took a little longer than perhaps it should have. The two young women were no strangers to derisive or even hostile looks cast in their direction as they walked down the street. Maka, never one to ignore such things, often stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to glare at those who looked at Tsubaki in such a way. Each time, she started forward again only when her friend begged her not to cause a scene.

Despite that, it didn't take them long to reach the dance hall. They each paid the small admittance fee to the doorman, and then they were inside.

Maka felt her spirits lift immediately, bolstered by the band's boisterous music. All her worries faded to the background, as if she'd left them at the door and so with every further step into the dance hall, they got even farther away. She sighed heavily, and smiled.

"I'm going to go find Blake," Tsubaki said, yelling over the band's rendition of Glenn Miller's American Patrol in order to be heard. Maka nodded absently and followed after her friend, her eyes on the various dancers on the floor. It wasn't until she'd nearly run into three different people that she finally focused on where she was going.

In the end, they didn't find Blake. As usual, he found them first.

"Hey sugar," a familiar voice crooned. Maka felt a hand brush against her as the man slid his arm around Tsubaki next to her. "Are you rationed?"

Maka watched as Tsubaki fought a giggle, smiling demurely instead. "I am, actually. He's a real nice fella, too."

Blake laughed. "Nah, he's a bit of a crumb, really. He still can't figure out how he got a doll like you to be his girl."

"I –"

"She can't figure it out either," Maka cut in before Tsubaki could reply.

"Ooh," someone else said. "That was good. She got you good there, Blake."

Blake rolled his eyes and looked back at the man standing just behind him. "Ladies," he said, "this void coupon here is my friend Solomon Evans. Be nice, he's a bit of a dead hoofer."

Solomon smiled tightly; it took Maka only an instant to realize that the man was the same one she had seen playing the piano the night before. It wasn't hard to place him, what with the white-blond hair. "It's Soul," he grumbled, just loud enough for her to hear. "Don't listen to anything Blake says."

Maka grinned. "We never do," she said. She met his eyes, and a moment later his smile relaxed into something more natural.

"Well, that's introductions done with," Blake announced. "Now, Tsubaki and I are gonna go have a ball. Later, alligators!"

They slipped off into the growing crowd, leaving Maka with Blake's friend, Soul. It would be rude, she realized, if she simply left him on his own. Unfortunately, she also wasn't sure how to break the awkward silence between them, the silence that occurred when two individuals were aware of the fact the other was there, but didn't know how to make conversation.

Instead, Maka took a deep breath and turned toward him. "Do you –"

"I don't –"

They both fell silent mid-sentence and simply stared at each other for several seconds. "Uh," Soul said, "ladies first?"

Maka sighed. "I was going to ask if you wanted to dance," she explained. It was considered a bit forward for the girl to ask a guy to dance, but she had never had much patience for the societal norms.

Her statement was met with a chuckle. "Sorry," Soul apologized, "I was about to say that I don't know how to dance, but if you wanted to, I could figure it out? I saw you last night, dancing, I mean, and you're really good. If you don't wanna put up with me that's totally fine, I'm more than happy just sitting and watching. I didn't really wanna come, but Blake dragged me out ..."

"That's real sweet of you," Maka said, cutting off his babbling. "Of course I'll dance with you. I could even teach you, if you'd like."

"You wouldn't mind?"

Maka smiled. "Tsubaki was telling me just before we left that it wouldn't hurt me to do some more casual dancing once and a while."

"Oh, okay, then."

Tentatively placing her hand in his, Maka then pulled Soul out to a calmer section of the dance floor. This was either a great idea, or it was a really, really bad one. Which one it was, she was about to find out.

* * *

Soul was still trying to wrap his head around what had just happened. What _was_ happening, currently, as the dame in blue from the night before gently pulled him out onto the dance floor.

After all, what were the chances that Tsubaki, Blake's new sweetheart, would be the dame in blue's roommate? He'd heard about Maka from the stories Blake would tell, but he had never guessed that she and the girl he had so admired the night before would be one and the same person.

He was extremely grateful for the fact that Blake demanded as much attention as he did. It meant that the dame in blue – _Maka –_ hadn't noticed him staring like the mook he was. She wasn't wearing blue tonight, had been his first, stunned thought. Her dress was green instead, patterned with small white polka dots.

Who knew how long he would have continued staring if the sharpness of her comeback to Blake hadn't distracted him? He certainly couldn't have said.

Fuck, had he really asked her to dance? Why did he do that? He _knew_ he couldn't dance for shit. Even the waltzes his parents had insisted upon him dancing when he was younger had been choppy and stiff. And yet, he'd found the words rolling off his tongue.

And had _she_ really asked _him_ to dance? As good as she was? Even knowing, as Blake had so eloquently put it, that he was a dead hoofer? The only possible explanation was that she had meant it as a joke.

But she hadn't, as evident by the fact she was actually pulling him out onto the dance floor. All he could do was let himself be tugged forward, his eyes fixed upon the square set of her shoulders.

When she came to a halt in an empty section of the floor, she turned back to face him. It was only then that he could see that her eyes were as green as her dress. His knees felt the urge to quiver beneath her critical gaze, but he held steady.

"Okay," she said. "Here's what we're going to do."

* * *

She took a deep breath before declaring, "I'm going to lead, and you're going to follow."

Now, Maka was not an experienced lead. Her only practice with leading came from the nights she and Tsubaki were too tired to go out, and instead danced together in their living room to the music on the radio. Everything she knew, she had simply picked up by paying attention to the men she danced with out on the floor.

However, she knew from experience that it was far easier for someone who had never danced the jitterbug before to follow well than to lead halfway decently. She only hoped he wouldn't take offense to her suggestion. It was practically unheard of for women to take the lead.

Luckily, Soul appeared relieved rather than offended. "Yeah, okay," he said. "That works. Uh, what do I do?"

Maka smiled at the beleaguered expression on his face. "Well, your hands go here," she explained as she placed his left hand so it rested on her upper arm and took his right hand in her left. Her own right hand rested firmly on his shoulder blade, albeit slightly awkwardly due to their height difference.

She watched as his countenance shifted to one of concentration. "Like this?"

"That's right. Now, step back with your right foot in a _rock- step_. Then we _tri-ple step_ , _tri-ple step_ , and _rock- step_ again."

Soul nodded. It took him a couple tries, but he fell into the rhythm quickly. Maka couldn't help but grin - knowing the steps meant nothing if one didn't have a sense for the rhythm.

"Okay, I think I get it. It's just one, two, three- and four, five- and six, one, two."

Of course he had a sense of rhythm, Maka realized. He was, after all, the new piano player for Spartoi. Maka didn't play any instrument, but she had a good sense of what was required for those who did.

They danced like that for a while, a simple back and forth, before Maka began to turn them slightly until they were making slow circles on the dance floor. "Okay," she said once they'd moved into the second song, "now whatever I do, keep doing those steps."

"Wait, what?"

She then led him into an inside turn, managing to get her arm over his head despite their difference in height. To his credit, Soul did about as well as to be expected of someone who had no idea what was going on. He stumbled over his feet a little as she led him back through the turn the other way, but quickly recovered.

"Don't think about it," was her advice to him. "Just keep doing your footwork, relax, and follow my lead."

And when he grinned exuberantly after nailing a moderately complex move she sent him through, she felt her heart seize traitorously. She smiled back at him weakly, for how could she not?

When the song ended and they finally stepped apart, Maka could hardly hear anything past Mrs. Blair's words echoing in her mind. _Find yourself a man, won't you? Won't you? Won't you?_

Maka turned and walked off the dance floor without a word.


	2. Part II

Had he done something wrong?

Soul stared after Maka's retreating back with a sinking feeling proportional to the growing distance between them. He hadn't been _that_ bad of a dancer, had he? He knew he was bad, but that alone wouldn't have … shouldn't have …

The music started up again, but still he stood there, dumbfounded. It wasn't until some other fella nearly ran him over that he ducked off the dancefloor. The tune the band played was bright, a cover of Glenn Miller's _In the Mood_ ; and yeah, Soul was in a mood all right, but it sure wasn't a great one.

Why had he let Blake talk him into coming out tonight? So far, it was turning out exactly the way he had expected it to.

Soul sighed. There was really only one thing he could do at this point, he supposed, and that was to apologize to Maka for whatever boneheaded thing it was he'd just done. Taking a deep breath, he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and began to wander in the same direction he had seen Maka go.

His thoughts wandered as well, twisting and turning through every possible scenario. Had she suddenly remembered how he had stared at her the night before? If she had, he couldn't blame her for leaving the way she had.

Soul carefully ducked through the crowd, doing his best not to step on anyone's toes. He had long since lost sight of Maka's slight frame, but still he kept going. She had to be there somewhere, he figured. From what little he knew about her, it was unlikely that she would leave so early in the night when there was still dancing to be done.

Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, depending upon how one looked at it, he found Blake first. Or rather, Blake found him.

"Hey, devil what say!" Blake called out from where he sat at a table, getting his attention. "Soul, buddy!"

With a small smile and a shake of his head, Soul veered off course to meet his friend. "Blake," he said without preamble, "have you seen Maka?"

A shit-eating grin spread across the other man's face, and Soul felt his heart plunge straight down into his stomach. "I might be in the know," Blake hedged. "The broad ditched you, did she?"

"I don't know what I did," Soul said, lifting a hand to smooth the back of his gelled hair nervously. "I wanted to apologize."

"Soul, buddy, don't flip your wig. Man, I've never seen you this doll dizzy before. If you must know, she's in cahoots with Tsubaki over by the drink bar."

Soul smiled weakly. "Thanks, bub. I appreciate it."

"Get me a quencher while you're over there," Blake called after him as he walked away. Soul raised his hand in acknowledgement and kept going.

He found the drink bar in the back of the hall, but despite what Blake had told him, he didn't see the slight, fair-haired dame. He did, however, find Tsubaki casually sipping a glass of cola. When she spotted him, she waved him over.

"If you're looking for Maka," she said gently, "she'll be back in a few minutes. Kidd asked her to dance."

"Who's Kidd?" Soul asked, thrown for a loop.

"He's one of the regular leads here," Tsubaki explained. "Maka loves dancing with him."

"Ah, I see. Uhm. Is she … okay?"

"Who, Maka? Oh, yeah, she's fine, don't worry." She paused, and then added, "You should probably talk to her, though."

"Did I do something wrong?" Soul finally asked the question that had been eating at him.

"Oh! No, no not at all, don't worry. Maka … well, it scares her when someone gets too close, too fast, that's all."

"Oh. Should I –" he swallowed past the lump growing in his throat – "should I leave her alone, then?"

Tsubaki smiled ruefully and shook her head slowly, her dark lips an elegant contrast to her tanned skin. "Nah, I just said that you should probably talk to her, didn't I?"

"I – yeah, you did," Soul stammered. Damn, he really was making a mook of himself tonight, and to everyone. "All right."

Ordering a cola for himself, Soul settled in to wait with Blake's girl until the end of the song. While it was sometimes impossible to get Blake to shut up about his sweetheart, Soul had never actually met her himself. In the five minutes he stood with her, he quickly found that she was just as sweet and charming as Blake said, if a little shy. She was fine talking to him, probably due to the fact that he was friends with Blake, but tended to avoid others who came too close.

The reason became obvious when he overheard some of the comments being made by a couple down the way. _Filthy Jap – What's she doing here? – Working her way back east._ Next to him, Tsubaki shrank into herself, and Soul knew he couldn't just let it be. It wasn't right.

But before he could say anything, someone else beat him to it.

"Hey, Gary!" The words sliced through the air like a knife. "Go take a powder, why don'tcha? What's she done to you?" A moment later, Maka came to stand with them, the tall dark-haired man from the previous night beside her. "Honestly," she said. "The nerve of some people!"

"You know you don't have to do that, Maks," Tsubaki said meekly. "They weren't doing anyone any harm."

"It's still not right," Soul muttered, staring down at the glass of cola in his hand. Blake had told him about some of the issues he and Tsubaki faced when they went out, but this was the first time Soul had ever experienced it firsthand. It left a sour taste in his mouth, and the worst part was that he knew at one point earlier in his life, he wouldn't have cared.

Once again, he was glad he had gotten out of his parents' house when he had.

When he looked up again, Maka was watching him with a calculating look in those green, green eyes of hers. Inexplicably, he felt a blush rise to his cheeks. He just hoped nobody would notice.

"No," Maka said slowly, "It's not right."

Soul's heart skipped a beat in his chest, and that was when he knew he was already such a goner for this woman before him.

"I'm Kidd, by the way," the dark-haired man finally said, interrupting both the silence between them and Soul's epiphany. "Mortimer Kidd, really, but please just call me Kidd."

Soul took the man's outstretched hand and shook it firmly, trying to ignore the way Maka still watched him. "Solomon Evans," he said, meeting Kidd's eyes squarely, "but please just call me Soul."

Kidd cracked a small smile at that. "It's nice to know that my parents were not the only ones who chose to foist such a cumbersome name upon their son," he said as he drew back. "You played with Spartoi last night, did you not?"

"I did," Soul confirmed. "I'm the new pianist – last night was my first night."

The other man nodded. "You play much better than their last pianist did. I could tell the difference."

"Oh! Uhm, thank you." Soul accepted the compliment awkwardly, feeling the heat rising to his cheeks once again. "I, uh, saw you dancing last night. You're very good."

Immediately, he winced at how awkward the statement sounded once it fell from his lips.

"Kidd's father owns the Shibusen," Maka said, having gotten herself a drink during his short exchange with the other man. This piece of information did absolutely nothing to calm Soul's nerves.

"That's cool," he said, about as lamely as one could expect.

Kidd shrugged as he shot a dirty glance at Maka. "It's all right," he said. "I get in for free, but that's about it."

"It's still something," Tsubaki said, reentering the conversation. Sidling up to Kidd with all the grace she possessed – which was more than a fair amount – she asked, "Kidd, would you like to dance?"

Soul didn't miss the pointed look she directed toward Maka as Kidd accepted and took her hand to lead her out to the dance floor. He also didn't miss the fact that it was now only he and Maka who stood by the drink bar.

"I'm sorry about earlier," she said after a moment, as the jitterbugs on the floor danced to a cover of _Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea_. "That was rude of me."

"It's all right," Soul said, unable to say anything else but. "I'm sorry if I did something you didn't like."

"No, no it wasn't like that," Maka said absently. "It wasn't like that at all."

"Oh. Okay." It was a lackluster response, and Soul racked his brains for something – _anything_ – else to say to the woman beside him. As per usual, however, she beat him to it.

"Thanks for sticking up for Tsubaki," she said quietly. "It means a lot, you know?"

Soul shrugged a shoulder, somewhat abashed. "There was a point where I probably wouldn't have even noticed," he admitted truthfully. "My family was privileged, and I grew up thinking that was just the way the world was, and that it was just natural. I've learned otherwise, since I dropped out of school and my parents cut me off."

He was somewhat mortified at spilling such personal history to a practical stranger, but at the same time, he wanted her to know. He wanted her to know him. He wanted to know _her_. If confessing his past helped him gain her trust, then he would continue to do so in a heartbeat.

"Yeah?" she asked, "Where did you drop out of?"

Soul couldn't help the little scoff that came along with the response of, "Juilliard."

Maka's eyebrows rose as she turned to look at him. "Jeepers."

"Yeah." He shrugged again. "My only real skill is with a piano, so I had a bit of a rough time of it for a while until I met Blake. He's the one who got me the job with Spartoi."

Maka huffed a little laugh that shouldn't have been as cute as it was. "Well, at least you're doing what you went to school for," she said, "sort of."

"And you're … not?"

"I graduated from Yale Law School at the top of my class on full scholarship, worked my keister off and travelled full across the country to get there, and I'm currently stuck working as a secretary for Stein & Gorgon."

"You're kidding me!"

She turned her sharp eyes on him, and immediately he regretted his words. "What? You think I couldn't do it just 'cause I'm a woman? I have the diploma back home to prove it."

"No, I believe you. I'm sorry. It was just a surprise, is all. I'm sorry you're not doing more with it."

Maka visibly relaxed and took a sip of her soda pop. "It's not the worst response I've gotten," she admitted, then sighed and downed the rest of her drink. "Do you want to try dancing again?"

It was only then that Soul remembered he was supposed to be getting a bottle of soda pop for Blake, but fuck it. His friend could get his own drink. Blake would surely forgive him once Soul explained the situation.

"I'll try not to step on your feet," Soul said, placing his empty cola bottle back on the counter. Maka did the same before taking his hand and leading him back out to the dance floor.

He couldn't ignore the way his heart fluttered at the contact.

* * *

She couldn't ignore the way her stomach flipped when she met his eyes.

The rational part of her brain told her that she didn't need this sort of drama in her life right now. Her work kept her far busier than it should, and the heavy storm clouds that were the threat of the war loomed constantly on the horizon, casting their ominous shadows across the country.

The other, more impulsive part of her brain was starting to realize those clouds were all the more reason to take advantage of the present while she still could. To seize the day, so to speak.

 _Carpe diem_.

Which was how, a week later, she found herself wearing her nicest dress and standing with Tsubaki outside the Shibusen after Spartoi's set.

"I just can't believe it," Tsubaki had gushed in her native tongue earlier that evening as they were getting ready. "You're actually going on a _date_ tonight! I never thought I'd see the day!"

Maka had simply shrugged as she fiddled with the hem of her dress. "I dunno, 'Baki," she'd replied in the same language. "What if it doesn't go well? He seems nice enough, but …"

"Then you just don't go on a second date," had been Tsubaki's response. "Come on, Maka. You're not entirely new to this. You dated in high school."

She had, and it had been a series of bad decisions. Even if it hadn't been, she had still been a child in childish relationships. Now she was twenty-four, and she hadn't had the time to date in college being so caught up in her work as she was.

And, if she was being honest with herself, she had never wanted a relationship to work out as much as she did now. The thought was enough to scare anyone, she thought.

Maka rocked back on her heels uneasily and clutched at her purse. She silently cursed the mass of butterflies that had taken refuge in her stomach – she hadn't had them this bad since the day she and Tsubaki had stood on the edge of the station platform back in Reno, Nevada in 1934, about to leave their lives and Death City behind.

"Oh! There!" Tsubaki suddenly exclaimed, waving to the very men they were waiting for.

"Hey! What's buzzin' cousin?" Blake asked as they approached. "You birds have fun knockin' it out on the floor this evening?"

"Don't we always?" Tsubaki asked, looking up at him as she slipped her arm through his.

Blake gazed down at her with such adoration it made Maka's heart clench. Tsubaki hadn't had the easiest life growing up – her parents had mostly ignored her in favor of her older brother. In fact, when she had approached them with the news that she was moving east with Maka, she hadn't gotten much more than a "good luck, be safe." So to see her now, with someone who evidently thought she hung the moon in the sky, meant the world to Maka as well.

"I hope you don't mind," Blake said apologetically, looking up at both Maka and Soul, "but I've gotta run home to drop off my trumpet. I don't wanna be lugging this thing around all night. Don't go into a decline and go on without us – we'll be back in a jiffy!"

Maka could only watch her friend's retreating back, having been entirely unaware of Tsubaki's oncoming duplicity. Immediately, the butterflies in her stomach increased tenfold at her heightened awareness of the man who had come to stand beside her.

"I do believe we've been had," Soul commented lightly.

Maka let out an unladylike snort before she could stop herself. "You _think?_ " she asked.

"Uhm, yeah. Uhh … is this okay? We can, uh, go back with them if you want."

She studied him for a moment as he shifted anxiously in the dim light spilling from the dance hall. His hand flew up to rub at the back of his neck, and miraculously, her stomach began to settle. He was just as nervous as she was, she realized.

"No," she found herself saying, and the single word startled them both. "No, it's … it's okay. They'll catch up with us later, right?"

"Right. Uh. Shall we?" He offered his arm to her, and she smiled as she took it, albeit hesitantly.

"Lead on."

* * *

Blake and Tsubaki never caught up with them that night, which, as they would confirm later, had been the plan all along. It was no matter; once the two got over their initial nervousness, the conversation flowed freely between them, and all else fell away. It had already been late by the time Spartoi had finished their set that night, and so their first date consisted of a stroll around Central Park and a late dinner at a small diner awash with warm yellow light.

Soul wouldn't have had it any other way, and Maka had assured him, as they stood on the doorstep to her apartment complex late that night, that she felt the same way.

He hadn't kissed her, though, and Blake immediately gave him shit for it upon his return home.

"Now, Maka ain't no able grable," Blake said as soon as he'd fished the recap of the night out of Soul, ambushing the platinum-haired man outside his apartment. "But still! You could have at least kissed her goodnight, chucklehead!"

Soul simply shrugged; in all honesty, he didn't _really_ want to talk about this just now. "Lay off it," he said as he unlocked the door to his apartment. "It was only the first date. It felt too soon."

"You're such a crumb," was the response, "but that's why the great Blake Barrett is here to help you!"

Soul rolled his eyes at that as he opened the door. "Goodnight, Blake. I'll see you tomorrow."

Blake caught the door before he could close it. "Tell ya what. This Saturday. You, me, the gals, all togged to the bricks. We'll go see a picture, and I promise that 'Baki and I won't fade on you this time."

A sigh escaped Soul's lips. "Yeah, all right," he conceded. "Goodnight!"

With that, he stepped into his apartment and closed the door firmly behind him. He waited a moment for Blake to return to his own apartment, then slumped back against the door as he removed his tie. He allowed it to hang loosely over his shoulders as he removed his hat and jacket and hung them off to the side.

The best part of living alone was that there was no one else there to see him as his face broke into a giddy, unrestrained smile. If he practically danced across the small living room in a rather undignified manner, well, there was no one there to see that, either.

He collapsed onto the small, lumpy sofa and sighed. How in the world could he have gotten this lucky?

Maka Albarn was, in a word, amazing. Brilliant. Perfect. Well, that was three words, but they all worked together to demonstrate how thoroughly head over heels he was for the small spitfire of a woman already. While it had taken them both some time to get over the initial awkwardness, they had quickly fallen into conversation as if they had known each other for months instead of mere days.

Maka was quick-witted and intelligent, as well as opinionated and hardly afraid to show it. It was a stark contrast to the women his parents had tried to introduce him to back home, and it was honestly quite refreshing. He'd told her as such when she'd cut herself off and apologized for talking so much, and the surprised look in her eyes and her subsequent delighted grin had set his heart racing.

Who was he kidding? It had begun racing before Spartoi had even started their set that night, and his heartbeat had yet to slow its breakneck pace.

Was it too early to say that he was in love? It was too early, surely it was. But as he lay there on the sofa, he had to admit to himself – albeit silently – that he was certainly headed that way. He could do no more to stop it than he could to stop the sun from rising in the morning.

It was with no small amount of effort that he pushed himself up several minutes later in order to practice the piano a bit before he went to bed. He was very careful about picking pieces that could hardly be construed as romantic, because he wanted to avoid the inevitable ragging on he'd get from Blake the next morning if he played anything incriminating.

Nevertheless, he couldn't wait until Saturday.

* * *

Maka had her head in the clouds for the rest of the week after her date with Soul. Sure, she kept it together well enough that her work at Stein & Gorgon didn't suffer for it, but it wasn't like secretary work took a large amount of concentration in the first place. Medusa Gorgon had snapped at her for being overly cheerful, but even that hadn't dulled her mood.

She had tried to stay guarded, really she had. All the reasons for not getting into a relationship still stood, but the more time she had spent with Solomon Evans that night, the easier it became to forget about them. Soul was unlike any other man she had dated. He wasn't overconfident of himself. He didn't treat her like some shrinking violet. He had encouraged her to share her thoughts and opinions, and he had actually _listened_.

He had stood up for Tsubaki, and when Maka found herself confessing to her move from Nevada and her own half-Japanese heritage, he had simply taken her hand and asked her if she knew any of the language. He had been so excited when she said she did, and then shared that back in Connecticut, his parents had made him learn French, a stuffy, aristocratic language that he hated.

They had spent nearly half an hour teaching each other phrases in their second languages as they wandered through Central Park, and nearly a week later, Maka still couldn't believe she had gotten this lucky.

It was Saturday night, and she and Tsubaki were out with Soul and Blake on their first double date, since Tsubaki and Blake had so summarily ditched them earlier that week. Maka had chewed Tsubaki out for ditching her the way she had, but she couldn't stay mad for long, especially when Tsubaki had asked her how the night had gone.

But all had been forgiven, and they had gone to see _Sun Valley Serenade_ , a comedy featuring the Glenn Miller Orchestra. Maka and Soul had actually watched the film, while Blake and Tsubaki had missed most of it necking in seats beside them.

"I can't believe he chose to marry her!" Maka exclaimed as they left the theater. "After what she pulled?"

"To be fair," Blake interjected, "his girlfriend _was_ kind of a drip."

Maka shrugged. "Yeah, but …" she sighed. "Never mind. The music was fantastic, wasn't it?"

"Yeah!" Tsubaki enthused. "Do you think you could get Spartoi to do that thing with the trombones?"

"I could suggest it, but I think Spartoi's trombone section would just end up knockin' each other out," Blake said, lighting a cigarette from the tin he carried. "It would be real Dillinger if we could get it to work though."

Maka withdrew from the conversation, lost in her own thoughts as they walked down the street toward a nearby diner. The movie itself had been a lighthearted comedy, but the newsreels that played before the feature film still bothered her. The war was only escalating outside the comfortable bubble that was United States Isolationism, and that bubble got closer and closer to popping every day, no matter what the Isolationists claimed. President Roosevelt had already frozen Japanese assets and suspended relations, and just earlier that month the United States had announced an oil embargo against aggressor states.

The majority of the country was shoving its collective head in the sand, but what good would that do when a bomb landed on the beach next to it?

"You've been awfully quiet," Soul murmured to her as the four of them entered the diner. "Is everything okay?"

Maka sighed as they all slid into a booth, she and Tsubaki sitting across from the men. "I was just thinking about the newsreels," she admitted. "We're getting pulled into this war whether we want to be or not."

Tsubaki hummed absently, having heard her. "It's awful that they have to show those newsreels before the pictures – especially when the picture is a comedy! They're such a downer."

"I think it's important to know what's happening," Soul said. "Like Maka said, we're not entirely unaffected."

"At least the pictures cheer you up afterwards," Blake chipped in.

"It's just," Maka said, "Lindbergh is an idiot. The thought that the United States can stay out of this war entirely is preposterous! We're only delaying the inevitable, and the longer we do so, the worse it gets over there."

"You want us to go to war?" Soul asked, alarmed.

Maka felt her heart sink. "I want to _help_. The Lend-Lease Act is all well and good, but we could be doing so much _more_. It's not like we're trying to preserve some sense of neutrality – we've already chosen our side!"

"But Maka, if we go to war, thousands of men will die!"

It was an argument that Maka and Tsubaki had hashed out several times already. Tsubaki was ever a pacifist, and while Maka loved her for it, it was something they would never be able to agree on.

Maka sighed. "Thousands of men are _already_ dying," she said, "and we shouldn't subscribe to the idea that it's 'better them than us,' because if Hitler wins, he's sure as hell coming this way next, and if he does, we'll be doing all our fighting then – and without allies, because they'll all have been defeated already."

"Maka's right," Blake said after a moment. "I'd do anything for my shot at a couple Nazis, but I doubt the army would take me, with my shit lungs and all."

The waitress came then to take their drink orders, and a solemn silence fell over their table as soon as she left.

"I'm sorry," Maka said. "I don't mean to be such a wet blanket, but it's just really been on my mind the past couple weeks, you know?

"No, it's all right," Soul said, leaning back in the booth. "I mean, you make a good point, but it all seems so far away, you know? We occasionally see it in the papers or in the newsreels, but it really doesn't affect _us_ all that much at the moment. It seems silly to jump in before we really have to."

Maka shrugged and traced designs absently into the tabletop with her finger. "I guess," she said as the waitress came back with their drinks. She waited until after they had all given their meal orders to say, "I just hate feeling like I could be doing so much more, but knowing I _can't_."

She felt Soul's knee nudge hers beneath the table, and when she looked up, she couldn't help but smile weakly back at him.

* * *

They moved on to safer topics after that, and the rest of dinner passed smoothly. Later that evening, as they were walking home, Soul and Maka trailed far enough behind Blake and Tsubaki that they were out of earshot. All was silent for a good while, both lost deep in thought.

"Hey," Soul said, breaking the silence as he bumped Maka's shoulder. "It's gonna be okay, I promise."

A bitter laugh escaped the small woman. "How can you be so sure?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Everything that's happening over there right now? Hitler, the Axis, the war? It don't mean a thing. We can't do anything about it, even if we wanted to. What matters right now is what's happening _here_. You and me, Blake and Tsubaki. Spartoi, the Shibusen. Your work at Stein  & Gorgon. It's all just as important."

Maka paused beneath a streetlight, and Soul stumbled over himself in his last-second attempt to stop as well. A small smile pulled at the corner of her painted red lips, and she planted the hand that wasn't in his on her hip as she turned to face him.

"Who are you and what did you do with Soul? The man I know could never give a speech so eloquent."

"Uhm. I, uh –"

The small smile morphed into a full-blown grin. "There he is," she said fondly. Stepping in, she leaned up on her tiptoes and planted a small kiss on his cheek. Soul stood there beneath the streetlight, gobsmacked, as Maka pulled away. She giggled at the expression on his face as she wiped the small red lipstick stain from his skin. It did nothing to lessen the red blush that had spread across his cheeks, however.

"You're right though," she conceded as she started walking again. "What you said before. There's nothing we can do, so I should really just stop stressing about it so much. What happens will happen."

"Uh, right," Soul said as he made to follow her. Tugging his hand from hers, he then pulled her in closer to his side as they walked the rest of the way to her apartment building. He wondered, yet again, how on Earth could have gotten so lucky.

They came to a halt on the steps outside Maka's building, and Soul found himself lingering, hesitating, unwilling to let the night come to an end.

"I had fun tonight," Maka said, standing one step above him. Despite the added height, she still stood a couple inches shorter than he did. "We should do this again sometime."

"Yeah," Soul said with a love-struck grin he couldn't control. His eyes met hers, and in the yellowed light of the streetlamps, it was clear to see when she glanced down at his lips. Steeling his nerves, he reached up to cup the side of her face. He leaned in close, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath ghosting over his cheek. He swallowed hard as he tried to gather himself.

"Is this okay?" he asked in a strangled whisper.

" _Yes_ ," Maka breathed, the following 'please' absorbed into the night as he pressed his lips to hers.

It was a chaste kiss, but perfect all the same as his dry lips brushed against her soft, waxy red ones. His heart stuttered in his chest before regaining its footing to beat double-time against his ribs. In that moment, he felt as though he would float away if he weren't careful. Neither of them spoke as they pulled apart. Soul was giddy beyond words, and he suspected that Maka felt much the same way as she blinked and cast him a shy smile.

"Goodnight, Soul," she said, then turned and jogged up the rest of the stairs. At the top, she turned back and waved to him before disappearing inside.

Soul blinked. "Goodnight," he said belatedly, even though Maka was far out of earshot.

He then turned and headed back to his own apartment, and if there was a certain skip in his step, well. It wasn't like anyone could blame him.


	3. Part III

And so it went.

The sun rose, and the sun set, just as it always had, and just as it always would. In the same manner, the world continued to turn, its people carrying on in the only way they knew how.

That's not to say, of course, that nothing changed.

Although the world continued to turn, Maka Albarn felt as though its axis had shifted. How it was that a man had captured her attention so thoroughly in only a few short weeks, she would never know, but Soul Evans had done it. While she wasn't a woman to let a man distract her from her career and ambitions, the thought of seeing him in the evenings got her through many a grueling day of paperwork at Stein & Gorgon. Even Medusa Gorgon's sharp tongue couldn't keep her down for long.

They had gone to the pictures and had dinner at nice restaurants as well as small diners. They had taken simple strolls through Central Park and the streets of New York and gone dancing at the Savoy as well as the Shibusen on nights Spartoi wasn't playing. There had been double dates with Blake and Tsubaki, chaste kisses in doorways and slightly less chaste kisses in darkened alleyways.

It was thrilling, and despite her initial misgivings, Maka wouldn't have traded it for anything else – wouldn't have traded Soul for any _one_ else. While she learned he found it hard to be open with his emotions, he was sweet and earnest and had some witty remark about nearly everything, even if it was often said so quietly it went unheard. He threw himself into learning the Lindy Hop with alacrity in an effort to please her, and while he wasn't nearly to her skill level, he improved enough that it was actually fun to dance with him.

It was in this way that the following months passed in a whirlwind of romance, excitement, and big band jazz music.

Maka felt as though she were on cloud nine. The lingering threat of the war overseas remained; however, in her distraction, its presence in her thoughts had decreased drastically.

But even if it hadn't, there was no way she could have predicted how the inevitable would come about.

* * *

December 7, 1941.

It was a date that would live in infamy. The speech might not be given until the next day, but the very moment Maka heard the interruption to the radio broadcast of the Giants football game in the diner where she and Soul were eating lunch, she didn't need a speech from the president to tell her the obvious.

"We interrupt this broadcast to bring you this important bulletin," the radio announcer said. "Flash. Washington. The White House announces Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Stay tuned … for further developments.

Maka felt both fear and dread creep into her chest and grip her heart with their icy fingers. She glanced up at Soul immediately, only to find him frozen and staring back at her with his fork hovering just above his plate. Neither said anything. Neither _could_ say anything, even as the eerie stillness that had washed over the diner broke into hushed whispers that built to frantic conversation.

"Tsubaki."

It was the only word that Maka could force past her lips, but in the three months they had been dating, she and Soul had developed such an understanding of each other that Soul knew exactly what it was she meant.

Tsubaki, whose immediate family had immigrated from Japan shortly before her birth. Tsubaki, who dealt with racism enough as it was already. Tsubaki, who had been against the United States joining the war since the beginning. Tsubaki, who had the day off from her waitressing job and was currently alone in the apartment, and who shouldn't have to deal with this news by herself.

"Yeah," Soul said. "Let's go."

They quickly paid their bill and rushed out of the restaurant, leaving their food only half-finished. They were not the only ones to do so – several others left with them, undoubtedly to find their family and friends as well. Maka watched silently. How would this affect each one of them? Had she been foolish to want the United States to get involved?

Outside, the streets were as they always were. People walked with no big hurry – it was a Sunday, after all – and there was none of the mayhem or solemnity that Maka had expected there would be. But then again, she realized, the papers had already been printed and distributed. Anyone who had been outside wouldn't have heard the radio announcement, and even then, it was unlikely that every radio station had broadcasted the news at the same time.

Maka and Soul raced back to Maka's apartment as fast as they could without calling attention to themselves. Once they reached the building, all reservations were cast aside as they ran up the stairs. They passed Mrs. Blair on the way, ignoring her call for them to slow down. A minute later, they burst into Maka's apartment.

"Maka?" Tsubaki asked in Japanese from where she stood in the kitchen. "You're home early. Is everything all right?" She looked up, and a look of surprise crossed her face. "And … Soul?" she said, switching to English, "What are you doing here?"

"You don't know," Maka said, catching her breath. "You didn't hear."

"Know what?" Tsubaki asked as she came over to them. "Maka, what's going on?"

"It's – it's –"

"You might want to sit down," Soul said with a wry twist of his lips.

The three of them walked slowly to the small living area, where they all took a seat. At last, Maka found it in her to speak.

"It's Japan," she said quietly. "There was an attack on Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. The Japanese did it."

Tsubaki could only stare, her eyes flicking between both Maka and Soul. "You're telling the truth?" she asked meekly.

Both Soul and Maka nodded.

"We're … going to war?" she asked, even more quietly.

Soul sighed in resignation. "Most likely."

"Oh."

"We didn't want you to be alone when you found out," Maka said, shifting closer to Tsubaki so she could put an arm around her. "I know that your family –"

"The hell with my family," Tsubaki said angrily, fighting tears. "We're American. _I'm_ American, I always have been. But – but –"

"But not everyone will see it that way," Soul finished somberly. "You look different, like _them_ , and so as far as anyone else is concerned, you're _with_ them."

Tsubaki nodded miserably, and Maka pulled her closer. Everyone was silent for a few minutes as they tried to comprehend the enormity of what had happened earlier that afternoon. It was Tsubaki who broke the silence with a mumble, and Maka had to ask her to repeat what it was she said.

"Are you happy now?" Tsubaki asked vindictively. "You've got your war. Isn't this what you wanted?"

Maka felt the jab like a spear to the heart, but she couldn't blame Tsubaki for her words. Not with the state of emotional distress she was in. Not when her words carried a fair amount of truth.

"Not like this," she murmured, feeling the comforting press of a leg against hers as Soul sat down on her other side. "Never like this."

"Then like what?"

It was a question for which Maka didn't have an answer. "I don't know," she said truthfully. "I don't know."

Soul kissed the top of her head, and the three of them sat there for a long while, simply holding each other. None of them spoke platitudes. It wasn't okay. They shouldn't wait and see. It wasn't going to be fine, and they all knew it. So they sat there in the silence of the apartment, trying to avoid thinking about what would happen next.

What happened next, of course, was a very loud _thump_ against the front door. All three of them jumped; Maka cracked her head against Soul's chin. That one thump was then followed by even more insistent thumping, before a very familiar voice called out.

"Tsubaki? Tsubaki, are you there?"

The three of them laughed weakly. " _Blake_ ," they all said together as Tsubaki pushed herself off the couch to go answer the door. Maka and Soul didn't move, but they could hear the conversation from where they were.

"Are you okay?" Blake asked Tsubaki, and then kissed her. "I came as soon as I could."

"I will be," Tsubaki said diplomatically. "Maka and Soul are here, too. They're the ones that told me."

"Oh, good."

Tsubaki came back into the living area, Blake trailing behind her. "Looks like we're all here," she said with a weak smile. "How about that?"

Blake surveyed the room, then nodded firmly. "We should go dancing tonight. It'll do us no good to stay holed up in here like a couple'a crumbs, after all." A large grin spread across his face. "Then we can beat the shit outta anyone who even looks at Tsubaki wrong."

Maka looked to Soul, who shrugged. "It's as good a plan as any."

And that was how, on the night of December 7, 1941, Maka found herself getting kicked out of the Savoy.

It was a date that would live in infamy, indeed.

* * *

But through everything, life carried on. The United States and Great Britain declared war on Japan, just as everyone knew they would. Christmas came and went, bringing with it a much-needed sense of cheer and merriness, even if it was severely dampened in light of recent events. The ball dropped in Times Square, ushering in a new year of uncertainty, and Soul kissed Maka at the turn of 1942.

There was no telling what the year would bring, but he would at least begin it well.

January followed, and without the cheery atmosphere of Christmas to bolster spirits, the snowy streets were simply cold and dreary. Gone were the warm, carefree August evenings, and as Blake hacked his lungs out on their trek back to their apartments after work, Soul longed to return to those days.

He longed to return to those days when retrieving his mail each morning didn't fill him with a sense of dread. Those days when every day that passed without him receiving his draft notice didn't feel like borrowed time.

Blake had already received his, only to be turned away with a IV-F due to the severity of his asthma after the physical examination. He pretended to be upset about not being allowed to fight for his country, but Soul knew he was secretly relieved. Soul was relieved as well; after all, someone had to stay behind and look after the girls.

Although neither Soul nor Blake were among them, the first American forces arrived in Great Britain on the twenty-sixth of January.

It was amazing how quickly the American public threw themselves into the war effort, Soul thought, given how isolationist the country had been up until the attack on Pearl Harbor and President Roosevelt declaring war. He did his part where he could, as did Blake and Tsubaki and Maka, but for the most part his part continued to be helping New Yorkers forget about the war for a while when they stepped inside the Shibusen dance hall.

Maka's favorite dance partner, don't-call-me-Mortimer Kidd, shipped out at the beginning of February, as did Kilik Rung and Ox Ford, two of Soul's bandmates. The disappearance of their friends and his constant fear of receiving the draft were probably the most hard-hitting aspects of the war, at least for the moment.

Everything changed on the nineteenth of February with President Roosevelt's Executive Order 9066, although none of them were immediately aware of it.

Then, news started trickling in about the relocation of Japanese Americans to internment camps on the west coast. Soul could only watch helplessly as Maka worried about her family, about her Japanese mother back in Nevada. Her father was white, but she worried he and her mother would be separated.

"Which wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing, in her opinion," Maka groused to him as they sat in his shitty apartment. "She doesn't love him anymore; I know she stayed with him for both his sake and mine. But for Papa … since the Great War, he's just been a shell of the man he was. Last I saw him, he was drunk nearly all the time, and when he's drunk, he's helpless. If they're separated, he won't be able to take care of himself."

"And what about Tsubaki's family?" Soul asked.

Maka sighed. "They'll be fine. They'll end up together if they get relocated, at least. I should be more concerned, but they always ignored her in favor of her brother. He bullied her, but they always turned a blind eye to it. Tsubaki didn't have any plans for once we got to Connecticut – she just wanted to get away from her parents."

Soul snorted. "Yeah, I know that feeling," he said. "All too well."

Maka kissed him then, and for a time, they were well and truly distracted from the matter.

It wasn't until a couple weeks later, when they were sitting on the couch in Maka's apartment, that Maka said she had received a letter from her mother. It was short, simple, and to the point, but it eased the anxiety caused by not knowing. Kami and Spirit Albarn were fine, albeit under stricter regulations than should have been necessary. Kami had been required to register, and they had been told to turn in any weapons and short-wave radios they owned. The Nakatsukasas had been relocated to a camp in California, but Kami didn't have any other information past that.

"Well," Maka said after Soul had read through the letter, "I guess it's a good thing they never divorced. Mama probably would have been relocated if she hadn't been married to a white man."

"It's not right," Soul said after a moment, handing the letter back to her.

"No, it's not!" Maka exclaimed, jumping to her feet as she finally lost her composure. "They're _Americans_ – just like Tsubaki! Just like _me!_ How _dare_ the government do this!"

"Because they're the government, and they can," Soul said drily.

There was silence for several long moments as Maka reread the letter she held in her hands. When at last the silence was broken, it was Maka who spoke.

"I want to fight."

"What?"

Maka crumpled the letter and tossed it onto the end table. "I want to fight. It's not fair that you and Blake and Kidd all have to worry about being drafted, when all I'm expected to do is to put my 'best face forward.' I could do so much _more_ than file papers at a legal office all day!"

"But what about Tsubaki?"

Maka fixed him with a glare. "Tsubaki can take care of herself. Besides, she'd still have Blake and Mrs. Blair to look after her. Please, Soul, you have to understand where I'm coming from."

The problem was, Soul did. He understood full well where Maka was coming from, because he'd been having similar thoughts as of late. As he played with Spartoi each evening, his somber mood became more and more at odds with the vibrant atmosphere. Was playing the piano _really_ doing his part? He enjoyed it, but like Maka said, he felt like he could be doing so much more.

When combined with the near-crippling anxiety he felt as he fetched his mail each morning, the idea of enlisting became more and more appealing. He had already talked to Blake about it, but had yet to broach the subject with Maka. She was, after all, the only thing really holding him back. At the same time, he didn't want her to feel like he would choose the war over her, because that wasn't the case at all.

"Soul?" Maka asked, peering curiously at him as she sat back down. "You got all quiet all of a sudden. Are you okay? Is it … about what I said?"

"What? No," he said quickly. "No, that's not it at all. I really do understand where you're coming from." After a moment, he added, "Perhaps a bit too well."

"What do you mean?" It was phrased as a question, but the tone of her voice suggested she knew exactly what he meant. After all, the understanding they'd had between them back in December had only strengthened in the intervening months.

"I've been thinking of enlisting," Soul said resignedly. He removed his fedora and ran a hand over slicked-back hair, wanting nothing more than to mess it up. He refrained from doing so as he continued, "This waiting is killing me. I'm going to receive my summons at some point, it's just a matter of time. And it's as you said – I could be doing so much more than just playing the piano."

Maka simply nodded, entirely unsurprised. She said nothing in response, but tucked herself in closer to his side. They were silent for several moments, listening to only the sounds of their breathing and the apartment. Tsubaki was off trying to find work, as she'd been fired from her waitressing job in the wake of the attack on Pearl Harbor, so it was only the two of them. The silence stretched on.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Just promise me two things."

"And what two things are those?"

She turned to him and looked him dead in the eye as she counted off on her fingers. "Don't die, and don't win the war until I get there."

Soul smiled fondly. "I'll do my best," he said, and kissed her.

* * *

Not a week later, Solomon 'Soul' Evans enlisted in the United States Army. He received his summons for basic training only a couple weeks later, in late March of 1942. Maka tried to be positive about it. It was only ten weeks, she tried to tell herself, only ten weeks before she would see him again. She tried to ignore the fact that it would only be for a few days before he was sent off to Europe for a couple years, at the very least.

Their six-month anniversary had come and gone quietly, and Maka could hardly believe they had already been together for half a year. At the same time, she could hardly imagine her life without him at this point. He had integrated himself so seamlessly, and now, with him gone, Maka wasn't entirely sure what to do with herself.

She worked by day and danced by night, unable to handle the thought of sitting still. She received letters from Soul at basic and wrote letters in return. He was stationed at Camp Upton, which wasn't too far away, located on the east of Long Island as it was. This almost made the separation worse, knowing he was so close but yet so far.

Maka wasn't about to let it break her. She might not be able to enlist, but she could soldier on with the best of them.

Things weren't easy at home. Tensions rose as it became clear that Americans would be affected at home by the war overseas. Tsubaki had yet to find work, and was more likely to have slurs tossed in her face than to receive a friendly word. Maka had nearly been arrested several times for defending her friend, and regretted none of them. She wrote about it to Soul, who didn't even try to ask her to stop.

 _That's my girl_ , one particular letter read. It went on to explain how he told stories of her at basic, and how all the single men were jealous. _I haven't told them of your encounters in defending Tsubaki, however. Some here are less … open-minded than we are. I should come clean. I hate to admit it, but to them, you're Mary. I couldn't afford to be shunned by everyone here at camp for being in cahoots with, and I quote, "those fucking Japs."_

The words had hurt, but far less than hearing them hurled at Tsubaki out of some asshole's mouth at the Shibusen. The dance scene blurred race barriers when it came to blacks and whites, but hadn't been nearly as forgiving when Tsubaki stood out like a sore thumb, especially after the attack on American soil by the Japanese.

Still, she could no more fault Soul for making the decision he had than she could fault Blake for not doing his duty in serving the country. _I understand,_ she had written back. _That's just the way things are these days, and you need those men's support. If it helps, I can sign my letters as 'Mary' from now on, in order to keep the truth from getting out._

Soul insisted it wasn't necessary, but she signed that letter, and every one after it, as Mary Albarn.

This was how she cooled her heels for weeks. March became April, and April passed without much excitement. At one point, Maka turned in her old toothpaste tube in exchange for a new one. Nights at the dance hall continued to be the highlights of her week.

"Maka," Tsubaki said in Japanese one morning in May, as she came in the door after her trip to the corner store, "you might want to look at this."

She held a flyer in one hand, the other grasping the paper grocery bag she carried. Maka immediately stood and grabbed the bag from her, placing it on the kitchen counter before engaging Tsubaki in conversation.

"What is it?" she replied in the same language. Curiously, she took the piece of paper from her roommate. As she looked it over, she could hardly believe what it was she was seeing. It was a flyer for the Women's Auxiliary Army Corps, asking for volunteers.

"You've been talking about how you want to … help," Tsubaki said. "I might not like the idea of fighting myself, but I knew you should see this."

"I –" Maka stumbled over her words. "Thank you, 'Baki. I know you don't think this is a good idea, but I want to do _something_."

The flyer was straightforward. _For your country's sake today – For your own sake tomorrow,_ it read. _Go to the nearest recruiting station of the armed services of your choice._ Four women in military dress stared patriotically off into the distance.

"I'll go today," Maka decided. "I've had it with sitting around and doing nothing."

It turned out the application was nearly as straightforward as the flyer. The only requirements were that the applicant was a US citizen, between twenty-one and forty-five years old, had no dependents, weighed at least one hundred pounds, and was at least five feet tall. Maka barely squeaked by the last couple, but she did meet the requirements.

She bit her bottom lip as she stared down at the form. After a moment's hesitation, she penned her name as she had penned it so many times before. _Mary Albarn._ She wondered if she should be lying to the government; the answer was probably not, as falsifying enlistment forms was a federal offense.

That didn't change the fact that there were other things to consider. Maka knew she didn't look Japanese, with her green eyes and ashy blonde hair. Her skin may have been a few shades darker than average, the shape of her features and the texture of her hair slightly less European, but experience had taught her that these things were often overlooked if they weren't being looked for in the first place, especially out here on the east coast.

Her name, though, was enough to make her other Japanese features stand out. She didn't want to face the discrimination that she would surely encounter if she joined up with her real name. As she filled out the rest of the form entirely truthfully with her education and work history, she silently thanked Soul for his unintended foresight.

On July 20, 1942, Mary Albarn would become a part of the first officer candidate training class of 440 women in Fort Des Moines, Iowa.

* * *

In the meantime, Soul came home from basic training in the beginning of June; it was a day he had been waiting eagerly for since the moment he left the chaos of New York City for the structured order of Camp Upton. He missed the city. He missed playing the piano with Spartoi, and he missed the energy of the dance halls. He missed late-night burgers in small diners. He even missed his shitty little apartment and his rambunctious neighbor.

Most of all, though, his missed his sweetheart.

Lost in his thoughts as he was, it took him a second to realize he had reached his destination. Thanking the cabbie as he handed over the bills to cover his fare, he stepped out of the cab to find himself standing in front of the Stein & Gorgon building. The noise of the city washed over him, and he felt himself relax for the first time in months.

Taking a deep breath, he checked the watch on his wrist. His timing had been nearly impeccable – Maka would be walking out those doors in half an hour's time, and he intended to be there waiting for her. She knew he was coming home today, but he hadn't been able to give her a time when he wrote his last letter.

He set his bag down by his feet, straightened his cap, brushed imaginary dirt off olive green sleeves, and settled in to wait.

He spent the next half hour smiling tightly at passersby, nodding at those who acknowledged him and thanked him for his service to the country. It was only after much of the time had passed that he realized he had settled into parade rest unconsciously. To the outside observer, he looked every inch the noble American soldier in his uniform.

Only he could feel his toes tapping inside the polished dress shoes he wore.

At last, people began to stream out of Stein & Gorgon's doors. Soul shifted his weight between his feet as he felt his heart begin to race. He was almost there. It wouldn't be much longer until he saw Maka again. He knew she usually ran late, but he also suspected that she would be unable to keep herself from rushing out, knowing as she did that he was coming home today.

Sure enough, it was only a couple minutes later that he saw her. She wore an elegant shirtwaist dress, the front part of her hair done up in rolls with the rest of it contained in a snood, as it usually was during the day. She claimed it was the only way she could keep the curls from falling out of her hair completely before the day was over.

He watched as she looked around, and for a second her gaze flitted over him before moving on. A smile grew on his face as she stopped in her tracks, turning back to him in a double-take. By the time she was hurrying towards him, he was full-out beaming.

"Soul!" she cried, and within moments her arms were wrapped around him, and his around her. Laughing, he picked her up and twirled her around before setting her back on her feet and kissing her.

"Surprise?" he said as he pulled away.

"You're back," was the only thing she could say in response. "How long are you here for?"

Soul picked up his bag and slung it back on his shoulder before taking her hand. "A week," he said solemnly, although the grin on his face diminished only slightly. "They said we were lucky – some only get a couple days between basic and being shipped out."

Maka made a face. "That's still not very long," she said, tightening her grip on his hand. "I guess we're going to have to make the most of it."

Soul's thoughts turned immediately to the small black box that lay nestled at the bottom of his bag. He had stopped at a small jewelry store once he'd gotten back in the city, something he'd been planning to do for weeks now. Somehow, that tiny box weighed more than all his other possessions combined.

Now, he had only a week in which to find an opportunity to give it to her.

"Soul?"

Soul suddenly realized he had gotten lost in his train of thought. "Huh? Sorry. Yeah, we will."

And they did. They went dancing several nights that week. They went out to dinner both at nice restaurants and cheap diners. They double dated with Blake and Tsubaki, and they did dinner at home with the four of them. That week, whenever Maka and Blake weren't at work, the four of them were together.

None of them mentioned the fact that they might never be together like this again. After all, it wasn't only Soul that was leaving – Maka would be leaving to join the military as well.

The ring box burned a hole in Soul's pocket. He kept waiting for the right moment to pop the question, but that moment never came. It didn't help that he was terrified. Absolutely, god-awfully terrified. These past few months had been like a spot of heaven in the face of hell, but as Soul ventured into hell itself, he didn't know if Maka would want to follow.

What if she met someone else while she was with the WAAC? What if, in light of their separation, she realized she could do so much better than an estranged music school dropout?

In the end, he had to tell himself that he had nothing to lose. If she turned him down, he would be in Europe for the next few years, at least, and would be so concentrated on other matters to really have time to wallow in sadness. He also knew she wouldn't be one to keep him hanging if she _did_ happen to meet someone else.

And so, on his last night stateside, he laid it all out on the table – quite literally, in fact.

The day had been wonderful. The group of four had gone to see a matinée picture, _Yankee Doodle Dandy_ , which had been a lighthearted musical piece. They had then gotten a bite to eat before making their way to the Shibusen. Soul had smiled as they walked inside; he had very good memories of this place.

That had been a couple hours ago, and while Soul had done some dancing, he was currently standing off to the side of the dance floor, watching Maka grin exuberantly as her dance partner swung her out. His fingers toyed with the little box in his jacket pocket. He needed to ask her tonight, and where better than the very place he had met her?

It was a little noisier than he would have liked, but it would have to do.

He was silently rehearsing what he wanted to say. He had been practicing all week, actually. Sometimes silently, sometimes to himself, and sometimes to Blake, who had become his roommate and taken his piano since Soul had sold his apartment before leaving for basic. After all, it wasn't worth paying the rent if he wasn't going to be living there for the next couple years.

And so, as he had been wont to do this past week, Soul quickly lost himself in thought. So far gone was he, in fact, that he didn't notice Maka walking over to him until it was too late.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Soul jumped, yanking his hand from his pocket as he turned to her. Unfortunately, he yanked his hand out a little too fast, a little too hard. He could only freeze in horror as the little black box tumbled out of his pocket to land on the wooden floor.

Well, shit.

It was too late to do anything about it. Maka had already seen it – he could tell by the way her eyes went wide, by the way she glanced down at the tiny box sitting innocuously on the floor before staring back at him.

"What? Soul?"

Soul smiled weakly, for all he could feel himself getting hot and flustered. That sense of crushing dread settled in his stomach, and he desperately tried to stammer out something – anything – to help him save face.

"I, uh," he said, beginning to crouch down to grab the box. "I thought, uhm." He winced when Maka picked it up before he could get to it, and his smile turned into more of a grimace. "This is not the way I wanted this to go."

Maka peered down at the box she held in her hands. "May I?" she asked tentatively, moving as if to open it.

Soul shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. He could feel the tips of his ears burning as he said, "Yeah."

She carefully opened the ring box, and Soul tried desperately to catalogue her expression. He knew what the ring looked like. It wasn't much, wasn't fancy. It was just a gold band with a single stone pressed into it, but he'd thought it was simple and elegant and something Maka would like. Something that wouldn't get in the way once she shipped out to the WAAC.

But, for once, he couldn't read her. She was silent for several seconds, until suddenly she said, "Well?"

"W-well?"

Maka fixed him with that glare that meant he should know what she was talking about. "Well? Are you going to ask me or not?"

 _Just take that rhythm, give it everything you got._ The band's vocalist sang on around them, as if taunting him.

"Oh! Uh," Soul stammered eloquently, "yeah. Yeah, I am. Uh, well. These past few months have been everything I'd never really dreamed about. I saw you dancing my first night with Spartoi and I bungled my notes in _Sing, Sing, Sing_ because I wasn't really paying attention to the music anymore. And, uh, well, I know that I'm leaving. And I know that you're leaving. And I know this is a lot to ask."

"You haven't even asked me anything yet," Maka teased, a twinkle in her eye.

It was in that moment that Soul knew what her answer would be. He took a deep breath and relaxed as a wave of relief washed away the tension that he had felt for almost a week.

"Maka Albarn," he said quietly, "I don't want to cause a scene, so I won't get down on my knees – not now, at least – but. I love you. When everything is said and done, after we win this war in Europe and pound Hitler into the dirt, will you marry me?"

Maka smiled, plucked the ring out of the box, and handed it to him. He panicked for a split second. Was she actually turning him down after all? He realized how silly he was being when she held out her hand for him to slide the ring onto her finger.

"Yes, Soul, of course I will. I love you too, and everything else don't mean a thing."

He kissed her right there on the side of the dance floor, and everything was perfect.

"You know," Maka said as they pulled apart, "Tsubaki said she probably won't be home tonight. Do you wanna get out of here?"

"A-are you sure?"

"Yes."

After that night, neither Soul nor Maka would see the inside of the Shibusen again for several years to come.


	4. Part IV

War was hot, and war was cold. The in-between didn't exist. In the summer, Soul sweated. In the winter, he froze. In the spring and fall, it could go either way, but he was never _comfortable_. He and the rest of his unit accepted it with the same weariness they had accepted the fact that none of them would be going home any time soon. War wasn't supposed to be comfortable. War was _war_.

At least Soul hadn't been under any delusions of heroism and grandeur like several of the other young men he fought beside. He had known it wouldn't be fun. He had known it would be gritty and painful and not at all a pleasant experience. He was glad, he thought in the darkened silence as he lay on his bedroll, that Blake had been turned away from the service. If there was one thing Blake Barrett had in spades, it was delusions of grandeur.

The man wouldn't have lasted a minute.

War was hot, and war was cold. There were some days that Soul found himself quivering in his standard-issue boots as he fought for his life. There were days where he could only watch helplessly as yet another man who he considered a friend in this European hellhole got shot down, bleeding out on the cold ground before the medics could arrive. Those days were the worst days, but the days of doing nothing, the days where all they could do was sit and wait, were a close second. When they were fighting, all Soul could think about was getting out alive. When they were sitting around, his thoughts drifted to everything that had happened. Everything that _could_ happen.

Those were the nights he laid awake, unable to sleep.

It was on those nights that he thought of Maka. It had been months since he had left her, months since he had proposed, months since they had spent the night together. He missed her so bad sometimes it hurt; they exchanged letters as often as they could, but that wasn't nearly often enough. Besides, with the both of them in the military – for all intents and purposes, since the WAAC was still technically a civilian corps – they had to be careful about what they wrote. Even when leaving out anything that might be considered sensitive information, they still received their letters marked up with blackout ink.

Soul got letters from Blake and Tsubaki, too. In the months since Maka had left them for the WAAC, they too had gotten engaged and had already moved in together to help pay the bills. Tsubaki had finally found another job, this time as a secretary at some business office, and the two of them were doing well, if worried for their friends.

In his replies, Soul couldn't tell them not to worry, not when he was worried for himself all the time. So he wrote about how pleased he was for them, and how he wished he could be at the wedding, and how wonderful Europe was – when he wasn't wet and cold and hungry, and he when he wasn't under shellfire. He didn't include this last bit, deciding he didn't want to worry them even further.

The one bright spot in this entire mess was his commanding officer. When he had reached his platoon, he had been shocked to be greeted by none other than First Lieutenant Mortimer-don't-call-me-Mortimer Kidd. The two had never really been _close_ back in New York, but he had been one of Maka's best friends, which counted for something. Hell, out here, even just _recognizing_ someone you'd never talked to back home counted for something.

The two became inseparable. After all, they each had the same goal: get the other man home safe.

"Go! Go, go, go!"

Soul dove for cover behind a large boulder, just narrowly missing getting hit by a volley of gunfire from the German soldiers across the clearing. Kidd was seconds behind him, sliding in beside him with a _thump_.

"How many are there?" Soul asked breathlessly.

"I counted three or four," Kidd replied as he briefly checked over his gun. "We've been spread too thin – there aren't any friendlies close enough to help."

"Right. Well, we'd better show these Kraut bastards what we can do, then."

Soul knelt up behind the boulder and settled his rifle atop it. Beside him, he felt Kidd do the same. Together, they took potshots at the Germans whenever they leaned out from behind the trees while at the same time ducking away from return fire.

The Germans approached slowly, but in quick bursts between trees. Sometimes either Soul or Kidd would get a shot in as they came out into the open, but by the time they were too close for comfort, there were still two of them left.

Soul looked over when a soft thudding noise to his left caught his attention. His eyes caught on the round shell of a grenade, and his heart leapt up into his throat. Time slowed. There wasn't time to run. There was no way he and Kidd would get clear of the blast radius in time. They were dead men standing, and that left him only one option.

He didn't even think about his next actions.

"Duck!" He felt the word leave his throat in warning to Kidd even as he was scooping the ball of death up into his hand. In a single motion, he hurled the explosive back toward the Germans and hit the ground behind the boulder.

The entire encounter lasted mere seconds.

Soul clenched his eyes shut as the grenade exploded mid-air between him and the Germans. He felt the heat from the explosion and the pain of shrapnel embedding itself in his flesh. He thought of Maka's smiling face, and tried not to think about how that smile would fall if she got the letter saying he died here.

He may have feared that he was dying, but he was in pain, and dead men feel no pain. Through the ringing in his ears, there was a voice telling him to get up. Dimly, he recognized that it was Kidd, and he forced himself to his hands and knees. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his back. The blood was already soaking through his uniform, causing it to stick uncomfortably to his skin.

It was funny, he thought deliriously as he and Kidd picked off the last of the German soldiers. Out here, wealth and background meant nothing. He came from a well-to-do family of musicians. Kidd had also been well-off, as the son of the man who owned the Shibusen. But here they were, fighting and bleeding and just as mortal as those who had come from nothing.

Soul lost consciousness just as they stumbled back into camp.

* * *

On July 3, 1943, the bill that would turn the Women's Auxiliary Army Corps into the Women's Army Corps was signed into law. While the women were given the choice to return to civilian life, Maka chose to fully enlist in the Army as a member of the WAC. For her, and for many other women who had joined the WAAC, there had never been much of a decision to be made.

Later that month, on July 14, 1943, the first battalion of WACs to reach the European theater arrived in London. Maka Albarn, at the top of her officer candidate class, was among them.

She had been absolutely thrilled to have the opportunity to go overseas. Although she would have resigned herself to operating switchboards on the eastern coast of the United States, what she had really wanted this entire time was to be where the action was. She wrote eagerly to Soul the very day she had been informed, although she had yet to receive a reply to the last letter she had sent.

The boat ride across the Atlantic had not been fun. It was crowded, and many of her fellow soldiers got seasick along the way. She had been nauseous for most of the journey as well, although thankfully, she had never actually gotten sick.

Maka was part of the detachment of 300 WACs who served with Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force, stationed at Camp Griffiss in Bushy Park, London. In a somewhat ironic turn of events, she ended up doing almost the exact same job she had been doing back in New York: she worked as a legal secretary. It was something she knew, and something she was damn good at, and she didn't feel nearly as stifled working for the military as she had for Stein & Gorgon.

And although she missed Tsubaki, she quickly made new friends in London.

"Hey."

Maka had been eating her lunch and reading the soldier's guide to Britain she and all the other American soldiers had been given before disembarking on British soil. It had been written for men, and read as such, but there was still useful information within its pages. The voice prompted her to look up.

Standing before her were two women, one slightly taller and slimmer than the other, but similar enough that it was easy to tell they were siblings. They were dressed in the same Army-issue green that she was, although she could tell that these women were part of the British forces and not the American ones. Even if she hadn't been able to determine this via the uniforms, their accents would have given them away.

"Yes?"

"You're one of them Yanks who just got here, aren't ya?" the taller one asked.

"I am," Maka said cordially, trying to remember what it was the booklet had told her. Deciding plain old manners were the best option, she stood and held out her hand. "Mary Albarn, Women's Army Corps."

The taller woman took it. "Elizabeth Thompson, Auxiliary Territorial Service, and this is my sister, Patricia, also with the Auxiliary Territorial Service. Please, for the love of all that is holy, call us Liz and Patty."

Maka grinned. "Sure thing," she said easily. "Would you two like to join me?"

"Sure thing," Liz said with a twinkle in her eye. Maka laughed.

"So," she said once the Thompson sisters were seated. "When did you join up?"

"Oh gosh," Patty said. "It was like – what is it now, '43?" She counted back on her fingers. "Four years ago. We joined up in 1939."

Maka was impressed, although she knew that Britain had been at war much longer than the United States had. "Wow," she said. "I only joined up last year, but I would have done so much sooner if I could have."

"It's been a struggle," Liz said. "With the Blitz and all. But while London may be in shambles, its people certainly aren't. We're going to win this war, you mark my words."

"Well," Maka said, "I'm here to help."

Liz snorted. "Americans," she said to Patty. "Always thinking they're the ones to swoop in at the last minute and save the day." Her words were harsh, but there was a twinkle in her eye that suggested she was joking, at least a little bit.

"Have you been around London yet, Mary?" Patty asked eagerly, giggling at her sister's words.

Maka shook her head. "No, I haven't. We got here, and then we just kind of hit the ground running. I'd like to, but most of the girls here are still settling in."

"We're about an hour outside of central London, too, so it's not like you can really just pop over there real quick." Patty hummed thoughtfully. "Would you like to come with us the next time we have time off?"

"Really? That would be great, thank you!"

Liz smiled. "You poor yanks are so far out of your element here. The girls who were already here figured we should probably do what we could to help you lot out, at least until you've got your feet under you."

"I appreciate that," Maka said. "I do have one question, though. Actually, two."

"And what's that?" Liz asked.

"Are there dance halls in London, and do you know where they are?"

Both Liz and Patty laughed, and that was that. The three were fast friends, and Maka didn't find herself as homesick as she once thought she might have been. Eventually, she even told the two women about her true name, and why she had changed it when she enlisted. They were the only ones in the entire country who knew the truth, which was strange to think about.

In turn, she learned that Liz and Patty had lost their parents during the Blitz. Although they had already been working with the ATS by that point, the fight against Hitler had turned even more personal than it already was. Although Maka hadn't yet lost anyone to the war – that she knew of – she empathized with the sisters' misfortune. She swore once again that she'd do anything she could to put an end to the war.

The days passed, the air raid sirens screamed, and the occasional letters arrived from Tsubaki and Soul. She went dancing in London on occasion, although it felt entirely different from the Shibusen back home.

She did what all Londoners did. She kept calm, and she carried on.

* * *

June 6, 1944.

D-day.

The WACs at Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force, had worked around the clock throughout the planning period for the operation in Normandy. Maka had never typed so much so fast in her life as she documented critical changes and alternate plans. For the first time, she'd felt like she was _really_ making a difference.

On February 23rd, an incendiary bomb had hit the WAC area at Bushy Park, causing substantial damage. Maka had gotten a break from the typing then; she had assisted in putting out the fires in the mess hall and company offices. The attack hadn't stalled the WACs for long – as soon as they had the area under control, they'd gone right back to preparing for D-day.

The atmosphere in Camp Griffiss was tense in the days leading up to the attack on Normandy. Maka, Liz, and Patty sat together in silence as they took lunch or spent their free time together. This operation was vital, and none wanted to imagine what would happen if it went south.

Maka had no idea whether Soul would be taking part in the attack. She had no clue where he was at this point – she hadn't received a letter in weeks. All she could do was sit, and wait, and worry.

She was good at that.

The news of victory at Normandy brought much-needed relief to the camp, although it did little to assuage Maka's personal fears. That night was a night of celebration, although the jovial atmosphere wouldn't last long.

After D-day, German V-1 and V-2 missiles hit Bushy Park and London in increasing numbers. The air raid sirens were almost a constant, and as such, Maka lived in a constant state of paranoia and fear. She realized that what she felt couldn't hold a candle to what the men who were actually out in the field felt, and she continued to worry for Soul.

On July 3, 1944, Maka was in her quarters reading a book she had gotten on her last trip to central London when she heard the distinctive buzzing of a V-1 missile overhead. It wasn't an unusual sound – since D-day, German missiles had been hitting Bushy Park and London with increasing frequency. As the buzzing grew louder, Maka set aside her book and made to get to her feet. It sounded like this one was going to hit Bushy Park, and she would be needed to help with the relief effort.

Then the world exploded.

Maka fell to her knees as the ground rumbled beneath her, throwing her hands up to guard against the falling debris of the barracks. She pulled her shirt collar up over her mouth and nose to protect herself from the dust and smoke and began stumbling toward the exit. Around her, her fellow WACs did the same.

She refused to panic. Even as a large piece of debris fell and nailed her in the ankle, she bit her lip and didn't cry out. She had wanted action, she reminded herself. Here was her action. It was hardly comparable to what she knew the men in the field must be going through, and it still wasn't fun.

While Maka hadn't gone into war thinking it would be fun like so many young men who enlisted, it was still even less fun than the not-fun she had thought it would be.

Her ankle was sprained, or quite possibly broken. It threatened to give way every time she put weight on it, sending pain screaming up her leg. Maka grit her teeth against the sensation and forced her way forward. After a couple moments, however, she realized that the screaming was not only coming from her leg – someone nearby was screaming as well.

Squinting through the intensifying smoke, Maka looked on in horror at a woman who was trapped beneath a heavy piece of debris. She glanced back toward the exit longingly before turning around and making her way toward her fellow soldier, her ankle protesting with every step.

"Go!" she shouted at one of the other women who had stopped. "I've got this! Get out!" The woman nodded and fled in terror.

It took her far more time than it should have to reach the woman trapped beneath the beam. Even through her shirt, she was beginning to cough at the smoke in the room. Her ankle wanted nothing more than to give out, but she stubbornly wouldn't let it. Not yet.

The trapped woman wasn't crying, but Maka wouldn't blame her if she was. "Come on," she said. "I'm going to lift the end of this beam, and you're going to crawl out, all right?"

Now that she was close enough, Maka could tell that the woman was Mira Nygus. The dark-skinned woman was older than Maka, but they had enlisted in the WAAC at the same time. Mira was tough, and seeing her helpless like this threw Maka for a loop.

Mira nodded. "All right," she rasped.

Maka wrapped her hands firmly around the beam. "Okay," she said, "on three. One, two, _three!"_

Every part of her body screamed at her as she held the beam long enough to make sure Mira got out. Once the other woman was clear, she dropped the beam back into place.

"Can you walk?" she asked as she helped Mira to her feet.

"I – I don't know," Mira said.

In response, Maka slung her arm around the older woman, who did the same in return. Together, the two hobbled toward the exit. They would be the last ones out, and not a moment too soon.

She wasn't really aware of what happened after that. She felt someone pull Mira away from her and two new people stepped in to support her weight as she limped over to first-aid. Slowly, she came to realize it was Liz and Patty beside her, and she relaxed infinitesimally.

"We came as quick as we could," Liz said as they set her down gently.

She might have said something in return, but the world around her faded into darkness. When she woke again, she was in the hospital with her ankle set in a clunky plaster cast. Broken, then, she thought wryly. Looking around, she saw that Mira Nygus lay in the bed beside hers, her wounds wrapped in a large number of bandages.

Maka laid back down in the hospital bed. None of this would go into any of her letters home, she decided. She didn't need to worry Tsubaki or Blake with a broken ankle, or Soul for that matter. Her hand drifted to the ring she wore on the chain with her dog tags. As she drifted off to sleep, her last thoughts were of her fiancé and everything she would have to tell him when all this was over.

* * *

It was over.

Soul writhed on the ground, the mud left over from last night's rain seeping through his uniform and coating almost every inch of his body. It was unpleasant and wet, but Soul couldn't feel any of it through the pain emanating from the bullet wounds in his thighs.

He'd tried to stand – surely a couple shots to his legs couldn't be what brought him down in the end – but his legs had collapsed beneath him, unable to hold their own weight, let alone the rest of him. Had he only received shots to one of them, perhaps he could have hobbled his way back behind the lines, but such was not the case.

Soul lay in the middle of a battlefield along the French border, coated in foreign mud and unable to do anything but listen to the sounds of the battle around him. Calls to arms, gunshots, screams. The devil's pianos played on in their raucous symphony of death.

He was bleeding out slowly – it didn't take a field medic to know that much. Soul tried to put as much pressure on the wounds as he could, but he only had so many hands and so high a pain tolerance. Blood continued to seep out around his fingers; he knew it was blood without looking, as it was warm and wet instead of the cold and wet of the mud that covered the rest of his body.

The camp wasn't too far away. He needed to get up. He needed to get back to Maka as soon as possible – he couldn't let her down. Not now, not when they still had so much more life to live together. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself over onto his stomach. If he couldn't walk, then he'd crawl. If he couldn't crawl, then by God, he'd pull himself along with his arms until they too gave way beneath him.

He had only gotten a couple feet when he heard a guttural German cry behind him, closer than any of the others. Seconds later, a hand grabbed his shoulder and wrenched him around so that he was lying on his back once again. The man was sandy-haired and blue-eyed, but Soul looked up and saw only the face of the Grim Reaper; the rifle's bayonet was his scythe.

"Es tut mir Leid," the soldier said.

Soul snorted, then grimaced in pain. "Fuck you," he snarled. "Go to hell."

The soldier must have run out of ammo, because it was the tip of the bayonet – the Reaper's scythe – that came arcing down toward his heart. In a last-ditch effort to live another day – to live for Maka – Soul gathered his practically useless legs beneath him and tried to get out of the way of the blade. He was only partially successful; what would have been a quick and lethal jab to the heart became an agonizingly deep gouge from his heart to his hip.

He couldn't help it. He screamed.

He didn't hear the gunshot – it was just one more in the cacophony that was war.

He was barely aware of the soldier collapsing beside him.

He would not remember Kidd rushing to his side and staunching the flow of blood. He would not remember being dragged back to the field medics before being evacuated to an Army hospital further behind the lines.

When he woke, it was in a hospital bed with clean, white sheets. He had been stripped of his uniform, and there wasn't a speck of mud in sight. Soul might have thought that he'd died and gone to heaven, but then he shifted a tiny bit and every wound shouted its presence. He made a sound of protest before realizing he did so, and one of the nurses came hurrying over.

A miracle, they called it. The gash across his chest had been deep, but had managed to avoid rupturing any vital internal organs. As it was, he had lost so much blood that they hadn't been sure if he would pull through. They had pulled the bullets from his legs, but as he recovered they warned him not to be surprised if he walked with a little bit of a limp even after everything had healed.

Soul didn't care. He was alive, and that was all that mattered.

His stay in the Army hospital wasn't long; however, even after his stitches were removed, he never returned to the front line. In the grand scheme of things, a couple shots to the legs and a gash across the chest weren't all that serious. It wasn't like he had lost a limb, but the stiffness that persisted in his legs and the slight tremor in his hands meant that he was better suited for desk work. He didn't mind.

It was only a few scant months later that the reviled Adolf Hitler committed suicide, and Germany officially surrendered to the Allies. The United States scrambled to demobilize its soldiers, and Soul found himself beside Kidd on a boat back home before the year was out.

It was over.

He'd made it.

* * *

Maka had known things would be different when she returned home, but knowing it and experiencing it firsthand were two entirely different animals.

In June, she'd stepped on the ship in England and waved goodbye to the Thompsons, who had quickly become her best friends overseas, and a few nausea-filled days later, she'd stepped off the ship onto the familiar yet unfamiliar soil of New York. Blake and a pregnant Tsubaki had been there to greet her, and one tearfully gleeful reunion later, she was camped out on the couch of their new apartment until she could find a place of her own.

After years of wearing her olive green uniform day in and day out, her new freedom in clothing choice was nearly overwhelming. Tsubaki helped her through it, just as she helped her in every other aspect of readjusting to civilian life. Blake helped as well, talking her down from a panic attack caused by an automobile backfiring. On nights she couldn't sleep, she snuck out of her friends' apartment and went down to the Savoy, where she danced until her feet hurt. If she was avoiding the Shibusen, she didn't admit it to herself.

Slowly, she began to put her life back together. She returned to Stein & Gorgon, and much to her pleasure, she was placed in a position where she actually saw legal work. She rented an apartment as well, despite Tsubaki's protests that she was welcome to stay as long as she liked. She didn't go far; there was an opening in the same building.

So she worked and she waited. She danced and she waited. In her down moments, more often than not she would find herself fiddling with the ring that she had taken off her dog tags and put back on her finger. She realized she was scared. What if Soul wasn't the same person she'd left behind? What if _she_ wasn't the same person she'd left behind? What if they didn't click as well as they had back in August of 1942? They had been writing each other as often as possible, but there was only so much that could be said in a letter.

And so she worried and she waited.

In September, Blake and Tsubaki received a letter from Soul detailing the approximate time and date his ship should be getting in. Maka had received her own letter as well, but hers simply read:

 _I love you._

She'd nearly cried.

When she saw him a couple weeks later for the first time in three years, his white-blond hair gleaming beneath his uniform cap and walking with a slight limp, she _did_ cry.

"Maka," he said reverently, his voice music to her ears. He opened his mouth to say something more, but nothing came out. Instead, he dropped his bag and wrapped her into a tight embrace as she sobbed into his shoulder. She held onto him just as tightly – she was almost afraid that if she let him go, she'd lose him again.

"Soul," she whispered.

"Maka," he said again. "I'm here. You're here. We made it. It's over. _C_ _'est finis._ "

Maka hugged him even closer before finally letting go and stepping back. She sniffled as he raised a hand to her cheek to wipe away her remaining tears, and gave him a watery smile. "Oh God," she said. "It's so good to see you. I just. It hasn't been the same here without you."

She tilted her head up at the same moment he leaned down. It was hardly their first kiss, but Maka felt her insides doing the same swoopy thing they had done three years before. Soul's lips were soft and slightly chapped against hers, and there was the lingering taste of salt from their combined tears, but Maka wouldn't have it any other way. It was perfect just the way it was.

"Welcome home," she murmured against his lips when she pulled away for air.

"It's good to be back," he said, touching his forehead to hers. "I'll never have to speak another word of French again, _Dieu merci!_ "

Maka couldn't help herself. "You just did," she laughed. Soul looked at her in mock affront, and then he too was laughing. "Come on," Maka said, reluctantly pulling away. "We're due at Blake and Tsubaki's for dinner. We can worry about getting you sorted tomorrow."

Soul reached for the bag he had dropped so unceremoniously. "Uhm," he said, "I need to figure out where I'm staying tonight, first of all …"

"I thought, uh," Maka stammered, "that you could stay with me? I know it isn't proper. Blake and Tsubaki offered to let you stay on their couch, like I did, if you'd prefer …"

Soul stopped her rambling. "Maka," he said. "I'd love nothing more than to stay with you tonight."

Maka flushed and nodded, and that was that.

It wasn't easy, but nothing that matters ever is. Both Maka and Soul had been at war, and while it was often Soul who woke in the middle of the night with nightmares, his screams sometimes sent Maka into a funk as well. His legs were still stiff from the injuries he had received on the battlefield, and the ache let him know when it was about to rain. Maka's ankle, too, felt particularly stiff some mornings.

They returned to the Shibusen, where Soul watched fondly as Maka fell sobbing into Kidd's arms. She had danced while she was in London, and occasionally at the Savoy since her return, but there was something about the Shibusen that was home. She danced with Soul as well, though they took it easy.

Soul picked up piano again, despite being rusty after having not played while he was overseas. It had been rough going at first, but regular practice had helped him with the tremors in his hands as well. Spartoi had all but disbanded with most of its original members drafted into the war effort. It wasn't the same band Soul left, and so he had no desire to return. He found a job with an orchestra for a theatre off-Broadway instead.

They had their ups and downs, but they dealt with it together. They saw Blake and Tsubaki and their newborn on a regular basis, and Kidd was brought into the fold as well, having been so close with Soul during their time overseas. The other man's new sense of near-crippling anxiety when things were out of place was hard to deal with at times, but it was understandable. In war, something out of place could very well mean multiple soldiers dead.

Liz and Patty came over from England to visit Maka, and ultimately ended up staying in New York permanently.

"After all," Liz said breezily at Blake and Tsubaki's now-crowded dinner table, "it's not like we really had anything tying us down over there, did we, Patty?"

Soul never moved out of Maka's apartment after that first night. They discussed finding a new place for him once, and never talked about it again. Conversation turned to the logistics of getting both the Albarns and the Evanses to New York, and they got married instead.

The year was 1946.


End file.
